


What the Bards Don't Tell

by GwynDuLac



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: (sort of), First Meetings, Hurt/Comfort, IMHO, Lucan doesn't get enough love in this fandom, neither does Kay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24189583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwynDuLac/pseuds/GwynDuLac
Summary: A young Lucan meets Arthur and Kay for the first time, and stumbles into his destiny - though he doesn't know it yet.****The first time I met Arthur was not so grand or noble as the bards would have it.They would gloss over all the things that were so important to me, that stuck with me down the years.The King took a wound in a great battle,they would say, But upon receiving news of the Saxons’ plans he was quick to lead his men into the next fight.Or perhaps they would ignore altogether that he had been injured; they did so often enough.A bard would never open a tale in the mud and muck of a cavalry camp shortly after a battle, but that is where my story begins.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 2





	What the Bards Don't Tell

**Author's Note:**

> This story was a case of "I have a scene I have to write and I'll build just enough around it for it to make sense". 
> 
> I love the character of Lucan, whom I picture as officially holding the position of Arthur's body servant or aide-de-camp, but unofficially helping Kay run a spy ring, and doing all sorts of "errands" for Arthur. In this story, his backstory is left intentionally vague since it's just a little one-shot.
> 
> Un-beta'd, but edited.

The first time I met Arthur was not so grand or noble as the bards would have it.They would gloss over all the things that were so important to me, that stuck with me down the years. 

_ The King took a wound in a great battle,  _ they would say _ , But upon receiving news of the Saxons’ plans he was quick to lead his men into the next fight.  _ Or perhaps they would ignore altogether that he had been injured; they did so often enough. 

A bard would never open a tale in the mud and muck of a cavalry camp shortly after a battle, but that is where my story begins. 

It was loud and chaotic and smelled of horses, men, and blood. To my eyes, there was no rhyme or reason to any of it, but my father grasped my shoulder and led me unerringly through the maze of tents to a pavilion with guards outside and a flag flying above. Upon hearing my father’s name and errand, one of the guards began to say that he would tell Commander Bedwyr that we were here, but his compatriot spoke over him: “You’ll find him with the medics, Lord. Commander Kay took a hard fall and the King went to see that he was alright.” 

My father thanked the man, and we were off again. I dodged horses’ hooves and hurrying men, torn between trying to take it all in and trying not to see the wounded being supported by their companions. 

At the medical tent, my father spotted his quarry immediately, and walked confidently through the chaos to the far corner where a tall, golden-haired man was talking animatedly to a dark-haired soldier sitting crookedly on the edge of a wooden chest, one leg stretched out before him, lacking a boot, ankle swollen. A harried-looking medic was trying to get a word in edgewise between the two men. 

“You might have been killed!” snapped the first.

“Rich coming from  _ you- _ ”

“Sir, please, you-”

“Lord Arthur,” said my father, his voice somehow managing to cut through the three-way argument, “I have news from Pontes.” 

The golden-haired man - the High King,  _ Arthur _ , I realized belatedly - rounded on us. He was younger than I had expected, considering that he had been king for years already. A sun-god in the prime of life who practically leaked energy and power into the air around him. His eyes - a clear, pale blue - searched my father’s face intently, then he opened his mouth to speak. And before he could get a word out the medic jumped into the sudden, unexpected silence that had fallen in this single, small corner of the world. “Sir, please, you’re wounded. It needs to be seen to.”

It took a moment for the words to permeate my thoughts.  _ Wounded? Not the King, surely…  _ But indeed, there was blood on his shirt, and for all that energy crackling around him he did hold his weight more on one side than the other.

The King looked between my father and the medic. He seemed to read the urgency in my father’s tightly-drawn brows, and the implacable determination in the medic’s stance, for he flung his hands out to the sides in a gesture that was not  _ quite  _ surrender but did indicate some degree of acquiescence. “Fine! You can work while he talks,” he said, throwing himself down onto the empty cot beside the trunk. “Kay ought to hear this anyway I suspect.” 

The King, I realized belatedly, was wearing neither armor nor doublet, suggesting that he had perhaps come here to see a medic himself as well as to check on his foster-brother. It was the work of a moment for the medic to unfasten the sword belt and pull free the loose cotton shirt from the top of his leather breeches. Arthur tipped his head back so he could look up at my father, expression expectant. “What news?”

I listened with half an ear while watching the medic. He had rolled up Arthur’s shirt to expose his side, revealing a gash nearly as long as my hand. I suspected most men would not have shrugged off that wound quite so casually as the King seemed to have done. Or perhaps a king in the middle of a war simply didn’t have time to spare to care about his own injuries.

“Saxons march on Calleva. They are led by Vortigern only and my spies say that he has no more than 400 men at his command, but he has sent-”

The medic poked at the edge of the gash and for the first time the King gave an indication that he was in fact injured. A pained little “Ah!” escaped his lips and for a brief moment his eyes closed tightly, body arching off the cot minutely. It made him look that much younger. He didn’t pull away from the medic, however. Instead, he twisted a hand in the loose fabric of his shirt, helping to hold it out of the way, and returned his attention to my father, evidently wanting him to go on. 

I watched the way the King’s hand convulsed occassionally as the medic cleaned and stitched his side, the way the fingers of his other hand dug into this thigh hard enough to bruise, the faint tremor in the tense muscles of his neck. But he listened intently to my father’s message and even asked one or two pointed questions, voice strained but even. He and Kay debated who could be spared after the casualties of today, who else to send to meet them at Calleva. (“Owain-” “Has his hands full at Caer Cadarn.” “Bedevere then, though I hate to pull him away-”) 

The medic finished his work about the same time the conversation ended, and all at once all the tension left the young king’s body. His eyes closed, his breaths came deeper and slower, and his muscles, so painfully taunt a moment earlier, relaxed. 

“Arthur?” asked Kay lowly, a hint of concern creeping into his tone. 

The King sighed and sat up, grimacing in pain as he swung his legs over the edge of the cot. He had steadily gone pale and now, abruptly, the rest of the color drained from his face. He rocked forward slightly, almost as if about to tumble forward onto the muddy floor - then caught himself, took another deep breath, and stood, catching up his sword as he did. 

He met my father’s eyes and shook his hand firmly. “Thank you for coming all this way with the news. We’ll ride for Calleva first thing in the morning.” His gaze settled on me briefly and he offered a faint smile, then looked over his shoulder and said warmly, “Rest your ankle, Kay.” And then he was gone in a whirl of energy, buckling on his sword and calling out to an aide posted by the tent opening, “Find me Bedwyr, and tell the officers to be in the command tent in half an hour!” 

I looked up at my father, questioningly, and got two unrelated answers to my unspoken confusion. “Yes, he is always like so far as I have seen; I think it is part of why people follow him, he seems invincible. And yes, I’ll be going to that meeting too. You...” 

“The lad can stay with me,” said Kay unexpectedly from behind us. 

My father nodded absent and relieved, and hurried off. I turned to Kay somewhat uncertainly. The man had a reputation for an acerbic tongue, and he was powerful - as both as a commander  _ and  _ as the King’s foster-brother. He gave me a sly smile. “Come on lad, we’re going to that meeting too. A little thing like a sprained ankle has never stopped me before - and what’s more, Arthur won’t expect it to. Hand me my boot and that crutch.”

I did. Kay took them, but met my gaze and held it, holding me trapped as if by some unseen force. “You don’t agree with your father, do you?”

“I saw the Saxons myself, Sir-”

“I didn’t mean about the Saxons. I meant about people following Arthur for being invincible.”

I nodded, then said slowly, “I don’t think I’d want to follow an invincible man; it would make him careless. A man who bleeds just like the rest of us but keeps going anyway, who puts his men and his mission above himself? I think I could follow a man like that.”

Kay smiled, slow but genuine. “What’s your name, lad?”

“Lucan.”

“Nice to meet you, Lucan,” Kay replied, offering me a hand to shake. “Now, let’s go see what go see if we can keep my brother out of trouble, shall we?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, grinning. And we did just that.

**Author's Note:**

> No, I have no idea who Lucan's father is. If you have any clever ideas, drop me a comment!


End file.
